I can’t remember when this started, and neither can I recall why it did. It just happened one day, without so much as a flash of lightning or blare of sirens. You see, at a certain point in my life, I started having these dreams.

They aren’t exactly nightmares, these dreams. Some of them are happy, and some depressing. But what scares me is the fact that they even exist. Weren’t those days without dreams – those peaceful days – weren’t they beautiful? Weren’t they simpler? Weren’t we happier then?

Perhaps things are meant to be so. Perhaps, at some point in time, we needed to start dreaming. Maybe those dreamless days were not meant to last, like how meteors that blaze brilliantly into the earth’s atmosphere have to be reduced to dust to remain as beautiful, peaceful things.

So, like a piece of ice, reality sat at the palm of my hand; the firmer I tried to grasp it, the faster it slipped away. And as the days passed – as the dreams became longer – I slowly lost track of it. My life became a blur, as reality and fantasy weaved into each other, so that I emerge from the end of one right into the beginning of the other. For the longest time I tried my best to differentiate one from the other, to check for signs of reality within my surroundings. But now my body is worn out and my mind is exhausted. I don’t try so hard anymore.

Am I still dreaming? Perhaps it doesn’t matter anymore.


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